Letter to Franny:
barbaralba_part - 5th book of a letter to Franny.
In the foundation was a mule in the sub superstucture is Barbaralba.
One doesn't find Barbaralba, one waits.
barbaralba_part_03

It’s later and as far as I can tell what it looks like, as I try to interpret German, is that our friend off the street has taken us for a ride. Unfortunately for him, no one had the cash or desire to pay his plane fare home where I doubt he wants to go anyhow. Oh, he’s here. I must stop now.

_bunnie stop_

Well, here we are all in Wohnzimmer. All seems to be in order for a morning departure but no one believes it completely. However, I’m sure the story ends with a whimper. And the puppy always pisses on the floor so I have a mop and bucket in the corner for his inevitable visit.

_bunnie stop_

‘Fuck me. Fuck you,’ says the washing machine. Freedom of religion, freedom of belief. Freedom to believe what you are told. Well, I’m sure we’ve touched on this before. I just want to add that the Catholic church is a load of hypocrisy and I find it ridiculous that people call themselves catholic and don’t even know what the fuck that means. I speculate most Catholics haven’t even read the Bible. They are told they are Catholic and they think that’s not much different than being told you speak Spanish. And the Catholic church not only doesn’t give a flying rats ass fart weather or not their followers are as ignorant as fly shit, they actually prefer it. People who don’t think are easier to lie too. What’s your religion, means about as much as what’s your shoe size? It’s something that usually stinks and you cover it up when you go out of the house.

_bunnie stop_

It doesn’t look like our friend Peter is coming back, which supports the belief that he is what he said he was. Though the chances of ever seeing him again are slim, I’m sure we’ll never forget him. Strangers leave a strange impression, especially when they have dreadful smelling feet that saturates the coach and blankets he used. This is late Thursday and he is likely in his house working on his computer.

As usual, I have the urge to write with the romantic belief that enough writing will make me a writer but as usual, I’m troubled by the belief that all is for naught. And with that.

Sn ‘More coffee?’

S ‘Do mind if I don’t.’

Now was it Bill or my good friend Dave, allies Skinny, that said that? It doesn’t matter. I have an insatiable appetite tonight, luckily I have lost my desire to chew, so eating anymore would be difficult. Wiebke always says, ‘No would in an if sentence.’ Is that a good rule? Never put a live chicken in you underwear is usually a good one to follow. Don’t kill people unless you are instructed to.

Also, I saw a man fishing where the raw sewage of the city is dumped into the ocean. Peter said it wasn’t so dumb on account the fish like to eat the shit with the knowledge, in fish brain dimensions of course, that their is still some food value left in shit. Ask a dung beetle or a fly. But if they ignore you don’t take it personally, I was going to say they’re full of shit most of the time, but that’s tediously predictable, so let me just make clear to you that they might not understand your question if you have too strong an accent. Okay, good night.

_bunnie stop_

I don’t know where we left our good friend, Peter, but if I said Germany, bus or plane, I was slightly off the mark. He may have gone to the bus station to cash in his ticket that Sebastian bought him but he didn’t leave Cadiz. He didn’t come back to our place to sleep.
After Sebastian had spent all day helping him with communications to Germany and reservations and where to go when he came back to us long enough for supper than he went out. He lead us to believe he has a romantic innocent catholic girl to meet but Raymond saw him the next night that he was to be in Germany, in a bar, drunk with two Spanish girls. He had some new closes as well, apparently. He didn’t have money to pay for his drinks and had the nerve to use Raymond as a reference.
The next night, Raymond and Daniel met him again in a bar, seven in the morning. Raymond gave him a bit of the what for and do you intend to reimburse the students who thought they were helping someone in need. Daniel was a little drunk, therefore less polite.
It’s new years eve and a few people are coming over soon, so I have to make some food.

_bunnie stop_

Raymond, Daniel and Sascha are all gone now. On their way to Germany. Our friend Peter is likely still around telling someone a story and not having money but getting by on charity.
I don’t want to start writing ‘I remember whens’ here but I remember Dick Lambert asking me if the first thing I was going to buy was a car. He asked it in just a way as to let me know he didn’t believe it was the wisest path. I don’t think he would have influenced me one way or the other but I still don’t own a car. I own little enough that if it all was taken away, it would be an effort to feel a loss. I still believe I prefer it that way, even if I haven’t the opportunity to make it otherwise.

We had the last supper last night with the boys. Talk lingered for a time on drinking and driving stories. My German enables me to get 60% of what’s said but I haven’t learned to talk yet. If I had an opportunity to tell drinking and driving stories, I’d tell the one when Peter and I went into a Bar way out the end of Dundas Street in London. Tim was too young to go in, though he looked older than I did. He wanted to wait in the car. Pete and I had a few drafts followed by a few more and a few more. When we finally came out, I told him I was fine to drive. On the way out of the parking lot, I forgot to look out the window. Luckily, Tim was watching and alerted me to a fellow madly swinging his arms. Behind him was a parked car I was about to drive into. I smiled at him and drove around him. After realising I wasn’t all right, I was fine. We drove out into the country and slept under a tree on the grass.
-I have absolutely nothing to say. I am only writing tonight as a means of escape from human interaction. Sometimes, luckily not as often as it used to be, I become completely alienated. -2600 useless words that no one understands.

And of course, the other drinking story one night, I hate drinking stories. I hate them mostly for the pleasure and pride we take in telling them. Gary and I were out in my Dad’s big Mercury Marquee. It was mostly my car but Dad still had the papers. It was a 1971 luxury power machine. It had a 429 engine. Not as quick, they tell me, as the 427 or was it 428 but it went faster than I needed to get anywhere. We were out past Lambeth, we were drinking beer and we might have shared a joint with some of the other guys. We decided to go back to London. Doug took off in his Datson and we left just behind him. When we went through Lambeth, I drove between 60 and 70. In those days, that was miles per hour. Speed limit in cities was 30 miles per hour. I weaved in and out of traffic as though there was no physical reality to fear. In my rear view mirror I saw the light. It wasn’t Jesus, it was the Ontario Providential Police. I pulled over strait away and we concealed our beer between our feet as best as possible. Gary was quite concerned and was hoping for a fine of $106.00 for whatever was a good offence. The officer would have his choice: Drinking and driving, impaired driving, speeding, possibly reckless driving. None of them were good for a young driver to have if he wanted to afford insurance the next year.

Finally, he came to the window and asked for my licence. I politely handed it to him with registration. He asked me if I was aware that I had cut off a cement truck? I wasn’t. He left. Gary continued to hope for a $106.- fine, which he offered to pay half. He felt partly responsible for encouraging me to hurry. Eventually, the officer came back to the window and handed me my licence and told me to drive a little more carefully. I told him I certainly would. He went back to his car. Gary and I looked at each other wondering if we had missed something. The officer was through and there was no evidence of his visit except that we could both confirm it by having seen it. We decided to accept it as a lucky day and continued on at the speed limit.

And I don’t feel like making a ending of relevance to the story. And there is nothing I particularly want to be mad about. So I’ll just mention that if I say anything in general about Spanish people, I want it down in writing that, I admit any thoughts are likely narrow minded, not so well researched and restricted to the far south which is likely the most conservative. They cling hard to the Catholic ideas that they don’t think about. And of course, I’ve only talked to a few Spanish people and they are just as much like anyone else anywhere else as anyone else is. Except for that where ever you are, you receive different input, thus have a slightly different output. And if –

_bunnie stop_

I don’t think we will be going to Morocco on account Wiebke is blond and none of us can pass as natives anywhere and every season is open season on tourist. Today’s the 8th I think. Yesterday I saw Peter the pumpkin eater sitting with two travelling people. He was in earnest explaining something, I’m sure somewhat exaggerated, to the poor trusting soles. And it is the trust he steals that is his darkest crime. I feel little sympathy for those, and I don’t exclude my foolishness, who are greedy for quick success or a quick buck or any reward with little effort. They put their money down blind with greed and are quite surprised that they don’t succeed. The fellow who steels this way is usually called the businessman of the day. But the fellow who steels your pity, playing with human trust, this is very shitty. I got up about 10:00 today. I had been awake quite a time and could stay in bed no longer. My guess is I won’t hear from anyone in this house until the afternoon. Students need their sleep. I have nothing to say except everything is the way it is, if it changes, then I’ll buy a lottery ticket.

_bunnie stop_

Sn ‘More coffee.’

S ‘Ya, sure.’

Here we are, Franny, at the park in Cadiz. There are three places we go to to see the sun, not including the roof, which is seldom visited and not including the cafe by the market where we sometimes have a coffee or a Fanta Lemon after shopping. This park is one place. Always quiet except weekends and holidays. The other is the beach a few kilometres away where Sebastian and Nicole live and the little beach just a short distance from here. The little beach also has pleasant things to look at such as the humble fortress that watches for invaders form the sea and little fishing boats and people.

I was thinking about some ideas for a rock and roll song the other day as we walked the streets of Cordoba. We visited the mosque with the Catholic Church built in the middle of it. We stayed in a hostel in the Jewish quarter. Everything is pretty and old and painted white and a little more expensive and not so warm as Cadiz. I don’t know where my napkin with the few lines on it is so I’ll just try to regurgitate the meaning here. It’s written with Eric from ‘The End of Grey Skys’, in mind though I have no idea if it suits his taste but if it doesn’t he won’t be obligated to like it. Here ‘tis:

I’m gonna be what you tell me to be. Ba. Ba.
I’m gonna be what you tell me to be. Ba. Ba.
White Supremacy, idiot Nazi. Ba. Ba.
CIA, KKK or Mary Kay. Ba. Ba.
Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, it’s all for me. Ba. Ba.

Then the first two lines again. And we’ll go on with all the things anyone can choose to be that has absolutely nothing to do with survival and everything to do with narrow mindedness and segregation and delusion and unfounded hatred and general madness of mankind which seems to stem from the inability to be at peace with our condition of not being so different from animals except for our ability to manipulate and process complicated thought. And maybe even, why is it we insist on focusing our energies on falsehoods. I can’t accept their argument that people need it. People need, that I wouldn’t dare to argue, but religion isn’t the what. It, like consumerism, televisions and all these other isems and schisms too Bob, are just dangerous drugs that may make us temporarily dumb to our condition, like a pain killer that kills the message in the brain and not the pain, but it only, they only, succeed in making our condition worse. Now, not only do we have a void, or a need, with a plethora of junk, strewn about, making a big racket, we are loosing time digressing and killing each other as we do, instead of learning what the need is and how to develop to accommodate for it. And so I must say, in case I’ve only said it a million times and you missed it, our desires to hide in a lie of any of the beliefs we’ve been supplied is not acceptable. Because something makes it easier to get through life, does not necessarily make it acceptable.

On the other hand, if we hurry up and destroy ourselves, it won’t matter what we believe. The planet will recover to some kind of liveable condition in ten thousand or so years, and if it doesn’t, it’s just another toxic wet ball of molten dust hurling through space. And the sun is soon gone from this outside cafe in the park so we will go soon. It’s the middle of January and I must soon return to the Grey Skies of Germany and there wait for spring. Perhaps I will consume my time in the mad passion or retyping my second book with the deluded belief that it will somehow mean something. And as what’s her name said, I think she was Canadian, maybe she wrote the Stone Angel. Ah, Margaret Lawrence, and what was it she said? I suppose she said many things. One thing was that in writing there is hope. Or something along the line that one writes because they still have hope. That’s not such a bad maxim. Later Alligator.

_bunnie stop_

One of the self bestowed benefits of a writer, as I loosely classify myself, is to be free to justify, though I hasten to add the need to justify stems from an unnatural learned paranoia that there is something or someone we must always answer to unless of course referring to one’s own self, to justify and entertain every absurd and possibly even somewhat asinine thought. Some of these thoughts are better quickly discarded into the waste basket of the brain while others may inadvertently instigate or generate or mutate into a cleaver or at least entertaining idea. Having said this, I admit that much of what might be vomited in this lengthy and somewhat directionless, may I loosely use the word soliloquy with no intended dishonour to a proper one, will appear as tiresome dribble. But, alas, because this is by nature a letter, it is necessary to disallow extensive editing except when clarity, if such a thing is in fact here in, be improved. This discourse may very well become an example of why there is a need for professional editors. If, and I have not such an arrogant nature as to presume it, this ever reaches anyone other then the one who it was written to, and this too is unlikely, I will insist that it is necessary to with hold it’s bitching for the preservation of an example of how a writer may write should he have little use of his sense of direction.

And so it is nearing the time I must depart from Cadiz, perhaps never to return. I must relearn my purpose in Germany and conduct myself in a way to prolong and possibly improve survival. As to our friend Peter who deserved more deliberation, we haven’t seem him of late. When we last passed him, he was hard at his life of leisure at the expense of the reluctant generosity of too trusting strangers. It’s likely he shall continue such a path and though for me it’s an unseemly life style, I must admit I somehow admire him. If perchance we hear news that he has returned to Germany to be that which he claimed he was, I’m sure we will be pleasantly surprised and wonder at such an outcome. My recommendation, besides starting new paragraphs on occasion, is to read good books, such as I now am devouring, Tom Jones. And remember, though story and plot are important aspects to writing, there is much joy to be had in the elegance of discourse. And though as a young writer we want not to be detained from success for so many years, it is imperative to not only write extensively to develop ones art but to read the books which because they might be recommended to us by professors of English or parents, we are reluctant to believe can be that important, they are. And once the understanding is developed to enjoy excellent literature, there will be little desire to chew away too many hours on top forty sensational list. I don’t mean to disregard resent books because they are resent or well merchandised, but much of them deserve less attention than the easily swayed public tends to give them. One example, of course, is anything I write, for although genius may not be so clear in the first three or eight books, do not despair, though it may be well hidden, it is certainly there. Blessed are those who read this and take heed. And as a note to the future, you might want to mark this page, if perchance I act on my desire to write a book to unfold a new religion, it is in jest and I prey to the gods of old, resent and yet unborn, that no proclamations should be taken seriously. For ‘tis a wise man who discovers how to conduct his own life (as it is with women) but a foolish soul who proclaims and professes to know how others should conduct their lives. In my modest opinion, religions are designed not so much in mad hope for something as unattainable as truth but to manipulate the weak minded, which most of us are at least most of the time. Having said this, I now remember I hadn’t intended to say so much so after mentioning that if something even a little cleaver came from tonight’s frantically scribbled down discourse, it is an example what may come of a idle thought that evolved with a little entertaining, I shall retire, hoping I haven’t created too many run-on sentences. Just one more thought while I wait for the bathroom to become free, if someone fancied the idea of writing, yet was troubled by the lack of inspiration, follow the old adage that I’m sure at least a few writers follow, that being, ‘write until you find inspiration.’ For once the motion is started and the part of the mind that enjoys harbouring doubt is somewhat quieted, it is possible that the freedom to express what you didn’t know you had been thinking about - I shan’t go on. I will rather now retire to slumber or some conversation or intimacy with my friend and lover whom is fortunately my excellent wife. Funny. I still have trouble with the word wife and if I fail to use it in reference to Wiebke, it is not for any reason but the somewhat tedious and troublesome nature I find in the word. Till later, Franny.

_bunnie stop_

I’m quite certain I have nothing to say so I’ll practice my printing and see how long it is before I start scribbling down ideas with mad intent. It’s the 24th of Jan. 95. I’m at the train station that is on the boarder of France and Spain and either the Mediterranean or the Atlantic. I’ve been her almost 2 hrs. and have 3.5 more to wait before sitting up all night on a slow train to Paris. I left Wiebke and the sunny sky of Cadiz last night. It wasn’t too crowded on the train so I had a little room to curl up and sleep. I haven’t spoken to anyone except for an austo la wago and when’s the next train to Paris. When I got off the train, someone asked me for my passport but when I looked half asleep at him, he asked me where I lived, I told him, Alemania, which is Spanish for Germany and he sent me on. This is the beginning of Wiebke’s and my fourth separation. This will be 2 months like two of the others. I thought of you today while listening to a tape with Mary Margrette singing a few songs. Something about having you. It’s something I dwell on occasionally. If I’ve plenty of time to chew up in idleness, I may venture into the memory of young women I had affection for. I usually only think of 2 or 3 in one go before veering off on a tangent, such as, oh, look, a mountain. Often it’s just a few who pop in automatically if there isn’t something to trigger a particular memory. Often, I think of Joanne from about 12 years ago for a few minutes and Catherine who I met in Costa Rica. But those thoughts are not to be related for they are mostly in picture form. I often remember Brian whenever I’m thinking of an adventure. I was thinking if my first book is published, I’d have to add a thanks for the first several chapters that appear as fiction but were very close to truth. A young French man asked me for a light, twice now. First time was in Spanish, this time in French. And my bloody arm is not at all good. As I suspected, no revelations have jumped into my head, so I’ll return to idleness and maybe a few pages of Tom Jones. I was going to say, it’s a wee bit odd to be on the boarder of two countries which speak fairly important languages and not know more than a couple dozen words in either, but since that is a tedious and pointless obviousness, I will stop just before deliberation.

_bunnie stop_

Just for clarity, I’m in Hendaye, which is on the Atlantic. Two clues made me wise to this, one, it’s too cold for the Mediterranean, two, I saw it on a map in the back of this train, the 304 which leaves at 22:55 which is less than a half hour from about this time. For several Francs extra, I could have a place to lay my weary head, but money is extremely tight since socialhelfe cut me off and I will have to curl up on this seat. This is a two seat isle two seat train with no separate compartments like the last two trains. Separate compartments with eight seats make you a little more familiar with a couple strangers even if you don’t know their language. I’ve eight and a half hours on this train. It won’t be too crowded if the number of people at this station is an indication. I must change stations in Paris and if this train is late I’ll miss the 8:54. And it doesn’t matter too much, there will be at least a couple more to the big city of Saarbrucken. I’ve had one hot shower in the last 7 weeks, or was it 6? That was at the hostel in Cordoba. At the flat in Cadiz, they have warm water with little pressure and no water after 23:00. Hey, we are leaving. I think someone was running for the train and missed it. This is the last one today. I must piss but now that it’s possible, someone, and there are only 3 others in this car, is in it. That’s the end of tonight’s banalities.

_bunnie stop_

by Joanne B. Washington

read on. barbaralba_part_04



© 2001 | the jose wombat project